


the devils hand

by nerdinessboundaries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dismemberment, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdinessboundaries/pseuds/nerdinessboundaries
Summary: Dean Winchester spent time in hell.Ever wonder what he did there?





	the devils hand

Have you ever been in a cave? Have you ever been just as deep into that cave as you could get? Imagine that you're there in some cavernous hallow. You've ran your fingers along the wall on your way in and it is wet and slick and everything is cool. Now you're standing in this cave and imagine you turn off the light. Every light. It's a darkness you'll never experience anywhere else. It's a darkness so solid, oppressive, you can feel it inching on your skin.  A claustrophobic tingle slithering down your neck.Now you can feel the cool dark air sliding into your lungs when you breathe and maybe you panic that it's going to fill you and cover you and blot you out like everything else in the cave. Maybe, when you flick that light back on, you won't even be there anymore.

Now, lift your foot and move it over about six inches. Shift over in the complete dark. When it's that dark, everything is happening inside you. Now turn around. Now step forward. Now, you are utterly lost. You have no idea where you are inside the cave anymore. You don't know which way is out or which way takes you deeper in. That slight panic you felt at the darkness creeping into your skin is starting to amp up but you're okay. You've still got that light. It's okay.

Turn the light on. Go ahead. Try it.

Yeah, It doesn't turn on. You flick that switch back and forward but there's no light. You shake it. Nothing. You fiddle with it as best you can in the pitch black. You unscrew the pieces thinking maybe the batteries got jostled and in all the movement, you drop the batteries. You hear them hit and roll away. The sound echos and you have no idea where they are. Now that panic is creeping into your breathing. Your hands start to shake. You're focused inward so hard tying to pull yourself together and not lose it when you hear the tiniest sound echo off the walls. The tiniest scratching sound.

This is where your heart falls to your feet, beating so fast it nearly stops. 

That moment? That moment of pure terror?

That's not Hell but it's damn close.

They say Hell is the absence of God. There's no way to know what that feels like until you've experienced it and once you've experienced it there is no way to describe it. God is different things for different people. Maybe, for you, in that cool dark cave, completely disoriented and terrified , God is warm light and direction and comfort. Maybe, if you find yourself caught in an undertow, God is breath and dry sunshine and a soothing breeze. 

Whatever God is for you, He's not here.

For some people, Hell is torture. It's the skin being scrapped slowly from their body and their organs being eaten from their insides while they watch. For some, Hell is being forced to do those things to someone else. For some, Hell is just losing who you are and becoming whatever Hell wants you to be. For some, Hell is enjoying the task put in front of you.

When you're nothing more than the hand holding the knife?

That's not Hell but it's damn close.

She's screaming, what's left of her anyway, and pleading. We've only done this a few times. For me, it's pitch black here. I can never orient myself in any way and her wailing echos so that I know we are in a smaller, confined space.  I've stopped caring, though. I know where the table is. I know where my tools are. I know where she is. Mostly. I know her body by touch and with every piece I've removed, it becomes easier and easier to map her.  

I don't know how this works for her. Maybe, in her Hell, she can see me working. Maybe, for her, I look like her husband, or father, or preacher, or the bag boy she daydreamed about fucking in the back of her minivan. For me, she's just a body of flesh, one that is currently very loud and her skin is covered in goose bumps.

I've removed her legs already. I started with her toes, individually, as always, and casually worked my way up, cutting away at each joint. It is astonishing how many times you can tear apart the same person and still find something new inside.  She isn't even restrained.  Her Hell is one of helplessness and I hold her hand, rolling the joints of her pinky with the tips of my fingers. As I slide the blade between the top joint, she screams and writhes and the piece falls away and I grin. I don't know where the pieces go. They fall and roll away. It doesn't matter. In the end, she's on the table again. Whole. Screaming. Next time, I might start with her lungs and let her feel the suffocation through the entire experience.

Then she starts bargaining.  They all start at a different time. Some lead with it before the first cut. Others hold out longer. Some still never do it but most do. She's pleading, Please. She's sobbing, Anything. She's gasping, Just stop. I cut with every plea. I'm at her wrist when she's offering, I have a daughter. I'm at her elbow when she's screaming, You can have her. At the shoulder, she's begging, Please stop and you can have her. I start on her other hand. 

Offering your child up for torture in exchange for your own safety? That's not Hell but it's damn close.

I'm at her wrist and she's whimpering, What do you want? At the elbow, I start to giggle. She's gagging on her own breath, What? What? At the shoulder, I'm laughing. She's screaming, What? WHAT?!

I move up and and stroke her face. She might be pretty. I run my fingers along the back of her jaw. She's still asking, What? I pull it forward as she speaks then crack it hard to the side. Her jaw hanging limp under her tongue and she's screaming afresh. I cut away her jaw and toss it over my shoulder. Some part of me hopes She can see this. I'm holding her tongue, running my thumb down the flat of her taste buds, and I'm laughing still.

"What do I want?" I tease, as I start to work on her collar bone. " I don't want your daughter or anything else you have to offer. I don't want your screams. I don't want anything you can give me."

I start to break her ribs, one by one, and pull them out. I drop each one to the ground. There's a crunch under my foot and I can hear her gurgling. 

"My name is Dean Winchester and all I want is your suffering."

She moans, a wet, sloppy sound, and I feel her relax as I work out her intestines.  The next few years will be much more enjoyable. 

That's Hell.


End file.
